Edge
by somberrimshot
Summary: Clove Rhona's only goal was to be in the Games and escape her parents' fate in the graphite mines of Two. When she takes her fate into her own hands, she begins to find that the odds may not be in her favor. (The Hunger Games plot from Clove's perspective. Possible Clato in later chapters.)
1. Chapter 1: Target Practice

(AN: I've always been terrible at exposition, so forgive the first couple chapters until I can really get into the meat of the story. Thanks for reading in advance, and please review! I'll be adding a chapter hopefully every week!

Also, shout out to PinataParty for allowing me to use her District One Graduation Games idea! You da bomb. -somberrimshot)

Targets always calm me down. Unfeeling, unmoving, just pieces of cardboard standing there, waiting to be pierced by my knives. I finger the sharp of my favorite blade, eyeing the red circles of the unsuspecting mannequin before me, keying in on crimson indicator between the eyes. I raise my hand to eye level, and with a flick of my wrist, the blade slices through the air and finds its mark. I stared at the knife protruding from the mannequin's head, lacking the satisfaction that I would normally feel. Granted, the satisfaction is normally limited. I don't miss.

A twinge of pain draws my eyes down to my hand, where I notice a drop of blood. A nick. I nicked myself. A flood of rage fills me to my core. _Settle_, my inner voice commands. _Composure._ But my rage overflows. _No, this is why you failed. This is why they choose Livia. That's why…_ I close my eyes tightly and clench my fist around the handles of the blades within my jacket and unleash.

_CALM_, the voice insists. I open my eyes. Blades are littered around the room, some lodged at random points in targets, others lying on the floor a hundred yards away. I look up at the lights and screens of the training room. No, no extra damage, aside from the few shattered bulbs my temper inflicted yesterday. Before I pick up my scattered knives, I head over to the first aid kit for a bandage.

I cut myself. I never cut myself. _Figures_, I think. _Just my imperfections rising to the surface._ _Everyone else sees it, apparently. _As I patch up my finger, I hear boots click on the tile down the hallway. I snap my head around to see Otho watching me from the doorway. "Did we have a mishap?" he asks, gesturing to my mess of a training session.

"Maybe," I reply, my shame seeping through my voice. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth, the shame. It's something I'm not accustomed to.

"Clove," Otho says, hesitantly approaching me. I have no idea why he would be scared of me, in all my five-foot-one terror. Otho is a large specimen, even by Two standards. His dark skin ripples over toned muscle, coiled to deflect my apparently imminent attack, veins throbbing in his temples with focus.

I scrutinize his posture until I remember why he might be afraid to come near me. I raise my empty hands and expose the inside of my jacket, devoid of any weapons after my fit. "Don't worry, I'm dry now." I attempt a smile. It doesn't work.

His shoulders shrug in what I perceive to be relief. "That's what you said yesterday, and I ended up with this." He points to the jagged row of stitches running parallel to his left eyebrow. "I'm just lucky you weren't aiming to kill. Didn't anyone ever tell you not to shoot the messenger?"

I sigh. "As mad as I was, I don't think I could kill you."

"Not showing restraint now, are you?" he asks, raising the eyebrow not laced up. "Not like you to be so merciful."

"You mistake my mercy for strategy," I reply matter-of-factly as I straighten up, restoring my normal glassy demeanor. "What chance do I have of being selected for Reaping next year if I eliminate the instructor who's trained me for ten years?"

Otho lowers his eyes, assessing me in the analytical way that I've become so accustomed to. District Two is all about assessment of situations and the odds and benefits associated with them. "You're not taking that personally are you?" He sighs at my silence, and rubs a calloused hand over his close-shaven head. "Clove, you know how rare it is for someone of your age to be selected for –"

"Cato is only sixteen!" I retort, my rage brimming again. "He's only got a year on me! I know I'm the best, Otho, I know I am, I know I am…" My fingernails dig into my palms, knuckles blanching at the pressure, and I shut my eyes again.

Otho rushes over and grabs my shoulders, the contact jolting me from my state. "Clove, you're losing yourself, focus, focus on me," he breathes. Otho's voice has always had a way of soothing me when I get like this. He's the only one who's ever understood what I needed, why I am the way I am. I feel myself relax at his touch, and I open my eyes.

"Good," he says. "That one didn't last long."

I shake my head. "It's why they chose Livia, isn't it?"

Otho pauses, bites his lip tentatively and sighs. "Clove…" But he knows there's nothing he can say to justify it.

I lower my head. "I could control it. I know I could." I shake my head, mouth turning down at the corners. "And anyway, it's not like restraint is all that _necessary_ in the Games! It's just killing people! If anything, I'm better off than anyone else in District Two! I—" My nostrils flare, taking deep, hot breaths in an effort to calm myself. It works, thankfully. I look up at Otho, who still stands in front of me. I forget how nervous he gets when I'm like that. I almost feel bad for putting him through it. _No_, I say to myself. _No emotion_. My weaknesses need not rear their ugly heads if I ever want to see the arena.

The reminder of yesterday's rejection burns in my chest, and Otho senses my discomfort. "You know I voted for you, right?" He places a conciliatory hand on my shoulder and smiles. He's always so genuine, a man you could trust. He didn't have the sharp features that most of us had in Two. There was a roundness to his face, a warmth in his cheeks. Hard to believe he trains killers for a living. Very successful killers.

"Doesn't count," I murmur. Instructors almost always vote for their own trainees. There's glory in being a Career, glory in being a Career Victor, but an even greater glory comes with being the Victor's instructor. Otho had his share of Careers make it to the big time, couple of fifth and fourth place finishes, but last year's Victor, Decimus, was Otho's greatest triumph, his first Victor.

Deci was my training partner for years, he and I moving to the front line of Otho's training group at an early age. Deci came from a family of Victors: his father, Nontius, his uncle, Brutus, and his grandmother, Aurelia, all some of the greatest Victors in Two's history. Deci was destined for greatness. I admire him greatly. A heaviness forms in my chest thinking about him, missing our days in this center before he became Two's latest celebrity.

Otho picks up on my silence to mean I'm thinking, so he releases my shoulder and turns for the door. "Just remember," he says to me over his shoulder, "you've got three years til you're eighteen. That's three years to convince the council. Don't take it too hard." I listen as he exits and begin gathering all of knives, sliding them back into their places in the lining of my jacket. As I pull my favorite out from the target, I notice the small red droplet of blood that stains the blade and catch a glimpse of my eyes in its reflective surface, pupils burning like hot coals through stark white. I have my mother's dark eyes, wide and deep-set, but not in innocence. Deci used to say my resting expression was "crazed old cat lady," which I brushed off as a joke, but right now, seeing the intensity practically pulsating through my irises, I considered that an accurate description.

I have to maintain control if I ever want to be in the Games. It's my only chance to become someone of importance, to escape the impending fate of my old mining town of my childhood days. My father, missing a foot and hacking up a lung on a daily basis; my mother tired and arthritic… I shake the image out of my head, not wishing to relive those days while I'm already in such a fragile frame of mind.

In addition to ruling out mining, I'm too small at only a little above five feet tall to make for a good Peacekeeper, and, as Otho says, "too headstrong" to follow orders - he always phrases my anger management problems so euphemistically. The Games are my only chance to make something of myself.

As I walk out of the training center, I think of seeing my mother and father tomorrow. All of us at the training school live here year-round, kept in the mountain where the Peacekeepers are trained, so the parents of the trainees never know who is going to be sent until the day of the Reaping. My mother's eyes will light up as she realizes I'm safe for another year, my father will breathe a sigh of relief. I, on the other hand, will be steaming while I sit in the row of kids at the front, the Career section, watching with bile in my mouth as Livia stands to volunteer. I will be expected to applaud as she takes the honor I so rightfully deserve.

Why Livia? Of all of the trainees who could've beaten me in the vote, why her? I've proven myself over and over again. I do nothing but train. But Livia's father is the head Peacekeeper of Two. She could never touch a punching bag and she'd still get to go to the Games by the time she was eighteen. The selection council has become so political lately… Only concerned about appearances, more so than winning even, so who better to send than the beautiful, affluent Livia? The Capitol influence pervades our district more and more every day. On my off-days from training, I even hear the students of well-to-do Two families in the marketplace using Capitol slang, addressing each other with District One-sounding names. I always hated District One, our rivals in the Games, so fluffy, so pompous… Perhaps it was just the miner in me coming into play, loathing the decadence that was invading our once-strong district.

I round the corner into the dining hall, where the air is aflutter with talk of this year's Games. All the boys are gathered around Cato, talking strategy, what the arena will look like, who One is selecting right now in their Graduation Games, et cetera. I ignore the powwow surrounding Livia on the other side of the hall, the rejection stinging anew in my eyes. Crying right now would be the worst thing I could do. I swallow down the lump in my throat as I grab the biggest slab of meat I can find on the platter. They always give us steak the night before the Reaping, freshly shipped from District Ten. I take a seat in the far northeast corner of the hall alone, not wishing to be reminded of my scorn.

I tear into my steak viciously, stabbing it with my knife and fork. They cooked these relatively rare, pink juices streaming from the meat as I hack into it. It's difficult to chew, but I don't mind it so much. Our Wild Game courses prepare you for eating in the Arena, a class that unlike most, I attended regularly, and I tasted some weird things over the course of that semester. I distinctly remember Livia skipping most of those days, opting for a private wrestling session instead. I think of her attempting to eat a poisonous muskrat placed by a Gamemaker, choking on its gamey flesh because she didn't know how to properly cook the meat. I smile a little.

"Whoa there, carnivore."

Caught off guard, I cough and sputter at the voice coming from behind me. I turn to face Deci, suddenly very aware of my mouthful of meat, juices running out of the corners of my mouth. I panic, attempting to swallow, but embarrassment forms a lump in my throat that my food can't traverse and I slump in defeat. I mumble a greeting and continue chewing, drawing the back of my hand across my mouth.

He smiles at my struggle. He was beautiful before he left for the Capitol last year, but the slight alterations his prep team made in order to ensure his constant beauty over the years have left him dazzling, especially to me. His hair, the color of chocolate mousse, is sprinkled with golden highlights to match his eyes. The prep team was very careful in reconstructing his nose, broken by the elbow of a now-fallen tribute, maintaining the straight Roman lines of face. With his beauty, though, came a constant tiredness, war-wearied lines in his face, dark circles staining the underside of his eyes… I hear he sleeps with his prized machete under his pillow. He isn't the same sixteen year old I watched march proudly to the Games this time last year, but he is still beautiful to me.

His smile melts my sour demeanor a little. "Sorry," I say as I swallow, laughing nervously.

"It's fine," he laughs. "You think I don't know after nearly eight years of training with you that you're a comfort eater?"

"I've missed you this year," I blurt out. My eyes widen at the admission. _Today has made me soft_, I think. I continue cautiously, "What I mean is, it's just been so long since we talked, with the tour and fame and what have you." I sound like I'm stammering. I hate myself a little bit.

He's taken aback by my forwardness, but only for a moment. "I've missed you, too." He pauses, letting the sincerity sink in. "Surprisingly enough," he adds, easing the tension. "Your meanness can be a lot to put up with sometimes."

"Well, you won't have to put up with me for long," I say, some bitterness returning, "you'll get to spend some quality time with Cato and Livia, Mr. Mentor."

He detects the hiss in my voice as I say Livia's name. "Someone jealous?" The remark smarts more than I thought it would, and I turn my back to him. "Come on, Clove, you know I didn't mean it like that," he says in an attempt to placate me. I prepare to turn myself to stone and shut down again, already sorry I let my guard down, until I feel his fingertips on the side of my face. "Hey," he says softly, pulling my head to face him where he sits next to me. "Don't tell anyone I told you this." He looks me dead in the eyes. "I mean it. I'm not supposed to reveal what goes on in Reaping Council." I nod my head in assent. He takes a deep breath and proceeds. "Every member of that council voted for you, myself and all the other Victors included. The only problem was Estha Auden's vote."

_Of course_, I think. Estha Auden was the head councilwoman of the Reaping selection. A tall, vicious Amazonian woman, she'd always intimidated me, from my first day at the Academy at the age of six. She'd never liked me, said I was too scrawny to ever make a good Career, but as she only has a say in who goes to the Games, not who comes to the Academy, she was overruled. I remember looking up at her during my review panel two days ago, seeing the look of disdain on her face as I each of my knives hit their mark, frowning as I took on my eighteen-year-old wrestling partner, practically searing holes in my head with her eyes as I completed all of the survival tasks with flying colors. She realizes she misjudged me, and she now hates me for proving her wrong, that hatred growing with each of my successes over the years.

"She made a desperate case to the rest of the council," Deci continues. "She mentioned how you've been unstable since your fourth concussion, how you'd prove to be a liability in the Arena due to your inability to keep control. Nobody was really swayed by any of that, and the head doctor defended you, saying you've been going to all of your appointments, working on reining in your problems, and that mentally, you were no worse off than Cato. Then, she mentioned me, and how my family's prominence brought more notoriety to the District during last year's Games."

"Made the selection a popularity contest," I say through clenched teeth. So I was right.

Deci nods. "Exactly. The amount of support and sponsorships I received last year were off the charts. She showed them the numbers, and then proposed sending Livia, since she's got some clout to her name, and about half of the council changed their minds. The council was split right up the middle between you and Livia."

I picture the meeting room, imagining who would've been on my side: the head doctor, having seen my progress from my last concussion; the director of the Academy that found me in the Southern mines of Two; Deci, Nontius, Enobaria, and Brutus, who wouldn't have picked someone of lesser skill to go to the arena. I run through the list, picking and piecing together the vote, when I remember who traditionally has the final say. "Who was the deciding vote, Deci?"

He breathes slowly, nostrils flaring as he gauges my anger. "Clove, you have to understand—"

"Deci!" A growl works its way from behind my gritted teeth. "Who. Decided. The vote."

He sighs in defeat. "Otho."

I can feel my blood beginning to boil, but then I notice the Deci's hand is still resting on my face, cool against my flushed skin. I want so badly to press my cheek into his palm, close my eyes and just feel, but I'm too angry, too hurt. I shove his hand away and stand up, throwing my tray into the wall. I feel everyone's eyes on me as I storm out with Deci in tow, but I am beyond even beginning to care. My tantrums should be commonplace for them now anyway.

"Clove!" Deci yells.

I turn on my heel, and he screeches to halt. We stand nose to nose, my eyes burning into his, when I feel my lip tremble. All my muscles release and break down. I hold in the tears, a well-practiced skill of mine, but I allow myself to tilt my head forward into Deci's chest and feel his arms wrap around my back. He holds me, reining in the fury that threatened to boil over. I inhale, nose filling with the scent from his shirt, and it immediately soothes me. "I'm proud of you," he whispers in my ear.

"For what?" I pull back, genuinely confused.

"For controlling yourself."

"Tell that to the tray of steak splattered all over the wall."

"No, really," he says, hands moving to my shoulders. "I half expected you to go to the trainers' quarters and… well, do something you'd regret."

My eyes dart off to the side of the hall. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered it."

Deci smirks. "It's okay, you know. To be weak sometimes."

I look up at him. I'd heard him say that before, but not to me—to last year's other tribute from Two, Desta, right before she died. She fought so valiantly, I remember, in the arena, made to look like a city in ruins… she ended up taking a beating from a tribute from Eight with a rusted pipe, denting her skull and breaking most of her ribs. I recall cringing at every crack that sounded from her broken body, because she didn't scream to mask the sound. She crawled across the rubble after the tribute left her to die until Deci found her, held her, and said those very words: "It's okay to be weak sometimes." And then she died, soundlessly.

"I'm not weak," I say, shaking away the memory. "To be weak is to accept death, you know that." _But I am weak_, I think. _I'm weak when it comes to Otho's opinion of me, apparently._

Deci knew this, too. "What I mean is it's okay if you feel hurt. I'd feel hurt. But you have to understand, Otho had his reasons." I stare at him inquisitively, but he just shakes his head. "Couldn't tell you, Clove, because I don't even know. Don't think I didn't try to find out. All he told me was that he had his reasons. I have no cause not to trust him, and neither do you."

I know this must be true, but I just can't shake the feeling of betrayal. Deci bites his lip and sighs, taking his hands off my shoulders and letting them slump to his sides. "Let's get you to bed," he says. "Tomorrow's gonna be a long day for you."

He walks me to the south corridor to the trainee compartments. We stand outside my compartment and just look at each other awkwardly for a little while until he steps forward and kisses me on the forehead. I blush at the touch of his lips, but I know he only means it in a brotherly way. Pushing aside the butterflies in my stomach, I say goodnight to him.

"Goodnight, Clove," he says sincerely. "Sleep on things and try to understand." He turns and heads back down the hallway. I watch him until he rounds the corner.

I place my hand on the identification scanner and the door slides open. Our compartments aren't anything special, just little holes in the wall we call home, with just enough room for a bed, nightstand, and small dresser. We don't have many possessions beside our standard issue clothing and our tokens from back home, the same tokens that will follow us into the arena should we be chosen. My token is an old coin, dating back to before the Dark Days, that I found digging holes in my back yard as a child. It's small, and according to my father, wouldn't have been worth much, considering it was made of copper. It had oxidized over time, he said, which is why its edges were fading to a light green. The date, barely legible, read 1968 underneath the silhouette of a man, who I assume must have been important in his time. The coin isn't of much significance to me, but it's the most interesting thing a miner's daughter could possibly own, and it became my token.

I reach into the top drawer and take out my Reaping dress, the same on every other Academy girl wears. White as a sheet of paper, and just as crisp, too. I place it on the top of my dresser and smooth out the skirt, and catch myself in the mirror. I don't come in contact with mirrors often, but whenever I do, I'm taken aback by just how much older I've gotten. At fifteen, my face is far less rounded, and has taken on the angular shapes that are so characteristic of the Rhona family, making my dark eyes look even rounder than I'd remembered. Even with as much time as I spent indoors, unwanted freckles are spattered over my thin, sharp nose. _My future prep team will have a heyday covering those up_, I think. I'm certainly no Aurelia or Enobaria (pre-teeth sharpening, of course), but I like to believe I'm workable, easily molded into something stunning. I've seen prep teams work with far worse.

A frown spreads across my face. "That is," I tell my reflection, "if Estha will ever let me go to the Games." I flop down onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. Estha Auden is the only thing standing between me and the Games. I should be preparing to right now. But no. Estha needs to be on par with District One, the Capitol's darling, with all their pomp and circumstance. She doesn't need the tiny, humble miner's daughter from the outskirts of Two.

I flop onto my bed, mulling over what I could do about the Estha situation, when I'm reminded of the real reason I'm not going to the Games. _You know I voted for you, right?_ That's what he said to me. Otho lied right to my face. But why? He's never lied to me before. Brutal honesty is the trademark of his interactions with me. Why now, when my destiny hinged on his vote? I try to understand like Deci asked me to, but as I fall asleep, the only thing I feel is resentment.


	2. Chapter 2: As You Wish

(More exposition, I know, but we're getting there, I promise. I tried to give a little more on Deci, let me know how you felt about it and if I should edit it at all! All reviews are appreciate and reciprocated with virtual hugs.)

The six o'clock alarm sounds, and my eyes shoot open. Reaping Day. District Two has the second earliest start out of the twelve. I immediately envy District Twelve for their two o' clock Reaping, but force myself up anyway. I peel off yesterday's training clothes and slip into my dress, and pull my hair back in my usual bun, simple and efficient. Before I leave, I grab my coin and tuck it into my pocket. I always like to have it on Reaping days, rub my thumb over the subtle raised edges while they call out names that aren't mine. Like they will be today. I push away my anger, suppressing it with clenched teeth and fists. I slip into a pair of white canvas shoes and head down the hall to the common area, where at six thirty, we will view the District One Reaping Ceremony before proceeding to our own.

I follow a group of younger trainees as they chatter about One's Graduation Games. Most of us trainees watch a special feed of the Grad Games the night before the Reaping, but whether or not Deci had essentially escorted me to my room last night, I would have been in too poor spirits to enjoy watching a bunch of snooty Oners fight with diamond-encrusted axes and emerald-inlaid daggers, complaining about getting blood on their designer fur vest. No, they aren't that extravagant, but I laugh to myself as I picture the spectacle of overindulgence.

District One's Grad Games isn't like a mini-Hunger Games, as I thought for many years. It's just a means for extra gambling, where the top of each class at their Academy rough it out in a ring for a spot in the Games. No killing involved, just some hand-to-hand combat for the entertainment of the District. Utterly disgusting to exploit what should be an honorable affair. The mere idea of One's hedonistic approach to our sacred Games left a bad taste in every mouth of Two, but that didn't mean we weren't somewhat intrigued in the outcome of their processes. It did dictate who our tributes would have to kill, after all.

We round the corner into the common room where smatterings of trainees sit in clumps around the screen, waiting for the broadcast to begin. I can see a couple of my acquaintances (for lack of a more formal term) eyeing me, but I don't pay close enough attention to decide whether their looks are inviting me to sit with them, or if they're purely out of pity. After my spectacle last night, I'll assume it's the latter and make my way over to couch where Deci sits. He smiles as I approach. "Don't you look put together for once," he quips, trying to lighten my obviously dour mood. I glower and make it very apparent that it's not working and plop down on the cushion next to him.

Deci leans over, bumping his shoulder into mine. "I was gonna give this to you before you went to bed—"

"You mean before you _sent_ me to bed?" I correct him.

"Shut up and take the gift." He hands me a small drawstring bag. I open it and find a length of crimson ribbon. Deci smiles, proud of himself. "I figured it would cheer you up. I remembered red was your favorite color."

As much as I try not to, I crack a smile. "Thanks, Deci," I say. "But what am I supposed to do with it?"

He rolls his eyes, and in that stupid pretentious Capitol accent says, "You tie it in your hair. It's all the rage in the Capitol." I turn and glare at him. "I'm kidding, jeez. I saw a girl in Three on my victory tour wearing one in her hair, and she reminded me of you." I'm taken aback by the idea that Deci thought of me as he traveled all over Panem, and as I stare the ribbon in my hand my thoughts swirl beyond comprehension. Deci takes it between his fingers very delicately. "Here, let me do it." A shudder runs through my body as his hand brushes the nape of my neck. "There," he says with pride. "Now you stand out over all the other plain white dresses."

"I already do, for other reasons," I say.

"You just can't take nice things, can you?" He brushes a wisp of hair back behind my ear. "I had intended to give it to you under different circumstances, but I figured you needed the pick me up."

"What circumstances?" I ask, before the realization hits me. "The Reaping. For when I was supposed to be reaped."

Deci nods. "I honestly thought this year was your year."

"Well, a couple people were out to make sure that didn't happen," I say coldly, not quite ready to relinquish my resentment for the umbrage against me.

As if on cue, the trainers and administration file into the room, led by Estha Auden. Everyone stands, including Deci, a show of respect for our elders, but I remain seated, glancing over the back of the couch, my lips pursed in a curt frown, brows furrowed. I am aware of my blatant show of contempt, but a fury clouds my judgment, and I remain cemented on the couch. I feel Estha's eyes on me, and intense emerald gaze I can feel from across the room.

"Rhona," she commands, her voice a deep, rumbling alto. "Stand in recognition of your superiors."

I stay still as stone until I catch sight of Otho peeking from behind, his dark eyes wide with warning. The sight of him only infuriates me further, and I feel my face redden as my hands begin to shake. Only when Deci kicks me lightly in the shin do I stand, slowly and deliberately, maintaining eye contact with Otho the entire way up, before shifting my gaze back to Estha. "Councilwoman Auden." I address her taciturnly, limbs rigid and jaw taut. She raises a perfectly penciled eyebrow, waiting for an apology that I don't plan on issuing.

Finally, after a long and painful standoff, Otho clears his throat and Estha's eyes shoot to him. He calmly taps his watch to indicate the time, and Estha relaxes and turns her gaze to speak to the rest of the room. "Ladies and gentlemen," she begins. "We are proud to ring in the 74th Annual Hunger Games with the viewing of the District One Reaping. But before we do so, I would like to take a moment to honor this year's tributes, Livia Jost and Cato Thiessen. Our selection council is proud to have them represent the district, and we know they will bring honor to Two."

Everyone applauds, but I clench my fists in defiance and seat myself on the couch again as the broadcast lights up on the screen. My fingers hurt from clenching so hard, it keeps me from doing or saying something stupid. Deci glances over at me, picks up one of my hands, and begins massaging it open. Four scarlet crescents scream from my palm where my nails dug in. "Almost drew blood there," Deci murmurs, concern evident in his voice.

"It's the only way," I say, shaking my head. "Nothing else has worked." I wish it was just an excuse, but every option has been explored; medications and psychotherapy curbed my anger for a little while, but with every fit of rage it felt like one step forward and two steps back. The pain reminds me not to lose myself.

"I just hate that you have to go through this." He grabs my other hand and begins circling his thumbs on my palm, and my finger slowly relax.

We both look up to the screen as the anthem blares out, and we gape at the District One town square, with all of its pastels paving stones and glittering buildings. The morning sky is golden behind the city, matching its color palette. As much as we hate One, we can't deny its splendor and the hold it has on the eye. One's town square is a bit more subdued, carved out of hard marble and granite like its people, so the spectrum of color on the screen dazzles us temporarily before the superiority complex kicks back in.

One's escort, a fleshy woman with neon green hair and a matching floor length gown, begins the reading of the Treaty of Treason, which we block out with conversation, knowing we'll have to hear it again soon enough, and it's hard to look like the intimidating attentive Careers we're meant to be if we're bored out of our wits. As soon as that passes, we fix our eyes to the screen as we wait to see our competitors this year.

Last year, the tributes from One gave Deci a run for his money. I remember watching in terror, something I have rarely ever felt in response to another human being, as Deci was pursued by a gargantuan eighteen year old named Topaz, a bear of a boy expertly engineered in One to fear nothing and show no mercy, a surprising shift from most of their past tributes that are trained to gain sponsors more than anything. I remember wondering if he'd been hijacked into a state of emptiness, in order to help him kill more easily, without a single shred of remorse. He had Deci pinned down by the throat on the rubble of fallen building in the arena, and just when I thought it was about to be over, Deci managed to get his hand on a rusted pipe lying nearby and impaled the boy through his abdomen. I'd never felt such a combination of relief and disgust in my life.

As I think back to last year's Games, I realize I haven't yet had the opportunity to talk about Deci's experiences in the arena with him. Maybe it's because he's acted so unfazed, so unaffected, I just hadn't considered that maybe he did need to talk about it. I make a mental note to ask him about it later and redirect my attention to the screen, where the escort was "drawing" the first name out of the glass ball. In One, it doesn't matter what name is drawn; the escort knows in advance whose name to call.

"Glimmer Mayhew!" the escort calls out, and a bright-eyed blonde girl gracefully bounds up to the stage, a vivid, bleached smile plastered on her face, hardly a threat.

"Wow," I hear Deci say under his breath, and suddenly I feel jealous of this Glimmer girl, though I don't know why. She looks incredibly made up, so fake, so… One-ish. And yet, the more I look at her, the more reasons I find to be envious: the golden hair; the cheery, heart-shaped face; the curves. Mostly the curves. I'm now conscious of my own lacking of hips, and I feel my cheeks blush a bright scarlet.

"Wow what?" I blurt out, overtaken by my jealousy.

Deci glances over at me confusedly, then laughs. "No, no, it's not what you think. I just can't believe how happy she is to accept her fate that she skips to the stage!"

"Oh," I say, then add, "Wait, what did you think I thought?" I want to slap myself for the hideousness of the sentence that just spewed forth from my mouth.

He smiles and turns back to the screen. My eyes linger on him for a moment as the escort reads off the second name: "Marvel Cantor!" Marvel stepped forward, chest puffed out proudly as he made his way to the stage. He was no Topaz, but he wasn't one to write off either, laden with lean muscle and sinew from years of agility training. He'd be quick and strong, hard to get ahold of and even harder to keep down.

My eyes kept going back to that Glimmer girl though, and my mind keeps going back to a piece of information I picked up in my Games History course. A Venusian pear tree. Modeled after an old world plant called a venus fly trap, the Gamemakers created a tree at the center of the arena to serve as their Cornucopia one year, a beautiful tree overloaded with luscious-looking fruit and the most exquisite, loveliest flowers I had ever laid eyes on, white and delicate, almost shimmering. Its central presence incited one of the goriest Blood Baths Panem had ever seen, with all the tributes fighting for the resources and shelter the tree had to offer. The few who survived and hadn't run off to the forest went to pick from the tree for food rations, but soon discovered the nature of the tree. You touch a pear, your skin melts away. You touch a flower, you fall into seizures and die in sheer agony. Something so beautiful that so easily brought suffering and death. It was one of the quickest Games in Panem's history, and possibly the most difficult to watch.

After thinking of the tree, I begin to think I've undervalued the blonde girl. The smile on her face could just be hiding cold blood, and I decide to watch her closely this year.

We watch Marvel and Glimmer wave to the crowd in a rain of obnoxious confetti a few seconds more until the screen goes black, our cue to begin to head to the train that will take us out of the mountain and into the town square. I look to Deci as we stand and begin to walk and ask him, "So, what do you think?"

Deci's mouth forms a thin line as he considers. "The boy, Marvel, he'll make it to the top five, but he won't win."

"Why do you say that?"

Deci shrugs. "He's strong, yeah, but he's cocky. He has an air about him, and the Gamemakers won't like that in their Victor. The girl on the other hand…"

"I know what you mean," I mumble. "Beautiful and dangerous."

"Duplicity is key," Deci says, leaning in. "Look like a flower, strike like a cobra, like Johanna Mason did a couple years ago. The Gamemakers will love that."

"You keep saying stuff about the Gamemakers," I say, puzzled. "Why?"

Deci stops. "You don't honestly think that everything in the Games is brute strength or skill, do you?" he asks. I can't tell whether or not he meant the question to be rhetorical, but nevertheless, I have no answer. He continues walking. "The Gamemakers pick and choose their favorites to win, and they work the odds in that tributes favor.

"Sometimes it works out, and other times it doesn't. Most of the time, that's the years when a Victor emerges from an outlying district." Deci pauses and chuckles to himself. "When they say, 'May the odds be ever in your favor,' they leave off the last part of the saying… 'If the Gamemakers wish it.'"

This knowledge comes as a shock to me. I knew some districts were better off than others, but I had no idea just how calculated it all was. I consider this as we take our seats on the train, separated from Deci as he now sits in the administrators' car, but I just can't bring myself to believe it. The Games has always been a contest of skill, survival of the fittest, or at least it's always been presented that way. Deci had to have just been speaking out of reckoning, or possibly spite. But then I think about all the scheming that went into choosing Two's tributes, and the idea begins to have the slightest bit of merit to it.

The train pulls into the station at the square, and we file out into lines to be scanned into the Reaping ceremony. I numb myself as I approach the gate lined with Peacekeepers, knowing nothing of consequence will happen to me here this year, but also consumed in thought with what Deci told me. I feel the quick sting of the finger prick and the dull throb as I press my finger to the pad, blood sealing my entry as I pass through the gate.

As I walk to my seat, I'm startled by a hand on my shoulder and whirl around to see my mother, Aelia, smiling at me. "Clove," she says through tears, taking me into her arms. "My, you've gotten so much older this year."

"Mom," I sigh, breathing in the scent of lavender in her dark hair. I always forget just how much I miss my parents until I see them at the Reaping. I pull back. "Where's Dad?"

"Oh, Albinus is already in his seat," she says, her smile falling ever so slightly. "His back in combination with his prosthetic has been making it a little more difficult for him to get around, especially in this crowd."

I also forget how much older my parents get ever year as I look at my mother's face. She was always such a happy woman in spite of everything she'd been through, but you could see the years were beginning to take their toll, crow's feet in the corners of her eyes, a pallor to her complexion from sheer exhaustion. She was still beautiful to me, though.

We make our way over to my father. I'm shocked by how slender he's become, and the way he hunches over in pain only accentuates the thinness. "Hey there, Little Bug," he says weekly, referring to me by my childhood nickname, as he grabs onto my hand. "So, we gonna have to watch you on TV this year or wait another year to see you?"

I laugh a little more nervously than I intended. "You know I can't tell you that, Dad," I say, swallowing my discomfort as best I can. I hadn't realized just how bad it had gotten for them. To my relief, a bell sounds, signaling that we all need to be in our seats. I give my father's hand a quick squeeze and hurry to the front where I take my place on the bench as the ceremony begins. I look up to the stage, where Deci sits in a line of chairs along with Otho and Estha and all the other members of administration. He catches my gaze and rolls his eyes as our escort, Tabitha Callahan, begins her Capitol rant.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Two," she says sternly. Tabitha has long since lost her sense of humor and excitement, having served as Two's escort for the past thirty-seven years, and speaks in a dull monotone. Her looks match her demeanor, progressing over the years from the normal Capitol color scheme to an entirely black look, even down to the lipstick. I've heard someone say the look was a Capitol camp look, a more underground form of fashion, but I think she's just getting really sick of doing her job. She hasn't done anything to convince me otherwise.

We watch the long clip from President Snow and get introductions for the entire administration before we finally get to the actual Reaping. The way Reaping works in District Two is a little different than in One. Whereas One is more concerned with a happy bubbly appearance of their tributes and is willing to rig the glass balls, we use the traditional volunteer process, where a name is pulled and a volunteer, well, volunteers. The only difference between our process and other districts is that our volunteers already know who they are. Nearly every child in the district enters in extra times for tesserae, knowing that they'll never actually have to step foot in the Games as long as there are Careers to take their place.

Tabitha proceeds to the girls' ball and flops a limp hand into the slips, drawing one out and reading it out without any grandeur: "Livia Jost."

A collective gasp emits from the administration and Career section, myself included. Careers names are never drawn. Time stands still as we cogitate, the shock congealing into confusion. Livia confusedly stands and takes hesitant steps toward the stage, not entirely sure what to do with herself without having to say the words, "I volunteer." Estha shakes her head, knowing that although Careers are frowned upon, it'll be a turn-off to sponsors to not have a volunteer from District Two, whether a Career's name was drawn or not. What are the odds? Statistically speaking, it's a near impossibility; Two is a huge district, with lots of children and lots of tesserae.

As I watch the silent chaos unfold around me in slow motion, a thought occurs to me. It's a dangerous thought, one that will cost me. But the opportunity presents itself, and now I have to decide whether or not to take it. They want a volunteer, don't they?

Deci looks at me, seeing the smirk forming on my face as I begin to stand, and his eyes widen in alarm, begging me not to do what he knows I'm about to do. For once, I ignore him, silencing his silent pleas in my head as I say the words I've waited my whole life to say.

"I volunteer as tribute."


	3. Chapter 3: Goodbye

Time moves in microseconds as I make my way to the stage. I feel everybody's eyes on me as the crowd claps. The moment went so seamlessly that everyone in the crowd believes I am the chosen volunteer, but the first five rows of benches stare me down in repugnance. Never, in all of Two's history, has there been such a flagrant disregard for Career protocol.

A regret begins to build up in me as I look to the row of administration officials. Estha seethes, nostrils flaring as she grips the sides of her chair, but then she releases all of her tension as I watched her do earlier in the common room, and she begins to clap with the rest of the crowd, a small smile forming on her face. My brows furrow in confusion at her sudden change in demeanor, but then I consider the fact that there are cameras around, appearances to keep up, and I brush it off. The rest of the Careers slowly follow suit, including Livia, who is still to astonished at her own name being called to fully register what has just turning my attention to Deci.

His eyes are still as wide as dinner plates, mouth pressed in a thin line. I see him swallow nervously as he watches me, unblinking. He makes no attempt to placate the cameras with feigned applause, and tears well up in his eyes. _Why are you crying?_ I ask through my eyes. He hears my silent questions, bites his lip, and shakes his head in response. I can hear his voice in my head, saying, _You don't know what you've just done._

And I don't, truthfully. My pride saw an opportunity to inflict damage on the system that had so harmed it, and my rationality was overthrown by my arrogance. The defiance of my action begins to sink in as my feet touch the marbled stairs. I've rebelled. I've done what the Games were set in place to prevent. My stomach drops with every step up. My eyes are suddenly drawn to the crowd where I find my parents. My father stares ahead vacantly, shutting himself down as I'd seen him do in the past. My mother's cheeks are already wetted with tears, and she clenches my father's hand tightly. Her mouth forms my name, once soft, then progressively louder, but I cannot hear as the veracity of what I've done closes in on me.

An eternity passes before I finally reach Tabitha at the podium, and her hand on my shoulder brings me back to reality. "Volunteer," Tabitha proceeds ceremonially, immune to the kink I've thrown in the ceremony, "please state your name."

"Clove Rhona." My voice is strained and gravelly, and I clear my throat and stand up taller, trying to pass this off as part of the plan. "Clove Rhona," I repeat with assurance.

Tabitha nods, grabs my hand and raises it above our heads. "District Two, your female volunteer, Clove Rhona." The audience erupts in applause again, but this time I hear it more fully, crashing over me in a wave that I don't think I can surface from. I maintain my posture and my face, but inside I'm screaming.

The crowd finally dies down as Tabitha keeps with her script and walks to the boys' ball. I stare forward inertly as she calls a random name that I don't hear. Cato stands, makes his way to the stage, and the crowd explodes again. I hear the final phrase, "May the odds be ever in your favor," and then Tabitha ushers us around toward the Justice Building. I glance over my shoulder to watch the scene behind me. My peers watch me with disdain. Livia is fuming. And my parents—Where are my parents? I search frantically against the force of the Peacekeeper who has taken a hold on my arm, but then I calm and remind myself that they've probably just been escorted into the back of the Justice Building for my goodbye.

I'm shoved into a plush sitting room by the Peacekeeper, and he shuts the door emphatically. Oddly enough, he's not left like I would have assumed he would, so I can have some privacy for my goodbyes.

Before I can even get fully comfortable, the door swiftly opens and Estha Auden storms in, accompanied by two more Peacekeepers. Startled, I stand, and the Peacekeepers fixate their guns on me. I hold up my arms in alarm.

"Settle down, boys," Estha says with an evil smirk. "Let's not harm our honorable tribute." The venom in her voice is more than evident.

My eyes narrow as I lower my hands. "I was just doing what you should've done to begin with."

She drops her smile, eyes afire. "You have no idea how any of this works," she spits through gritted teeth. "There's so much more that goes into the process of the Games that you could never begin to comprehend. But you instead threw your little temper tantrums and proceeded to completely undermine our system."

"What 'system'?" I counter, my contempt for the woman getting the better of me. "You train us for the better part of our adolescence and then you pick the best to send to the Games." My voice gets increasingly louder. "Tell me I wasn't the best, Estha!" I see the Peacekeepers tense up, and Estha holds a hand up to them.

"We don't send the best, Clove," she says. "The system is more complex than that. We have quotas, standards to take into account to stay on good terms with the Capitol. Do you know how easy it would be for us to slip into obscurity like that pitiful District 12? Do you even—" She pauses and takes a deep breath. "You already know too much."

"What are you talking about? I know nothing."

She scoffs. "Please. You think we don't know the nature of your and Decimus's relationship?" I blush unintentionally. "But this is the bed you have so lovingly made for us, and now we must lie in it." She turns on her heel to exit the room. "I hope you're truly as prepared for the arena as you believe yourself to be, because the odds are not in your favor, Miss Rhona. You've made sure of that. I hope you're willing to endure the consequences." She walks out of the room, followed by the three Peacekeepers, and I'm now by myself.

What does she mean by that? Surely, I can still shift the odds in my favor. I'm not even in the arena yet. She has to be bluffing, trying to shake me up as recompense for completely undercutting her authority… Oh god. Sponsors. She'll make sure I never get sponsors. No, that's not under her jurisdiction. I make a mental list of things that are important to me. She can't do anything to Deci, he's a victor. Otho… Otho is no longer deserving of my concern. My parents—

Oh god, my parents. They weren't in the crowd as I was leaving. My lungs are shrinking, I can't manage a full breath. I seat myself and grip the velour of the couch, which now that I look at it, is such a disgusting shade of green that it makes me want to vomit. Or maybe that's just nausea. My head spins. I can't think of anything but Peacekeepers pulling my mother along, a panicked look spreading across her face, tears already streaming from the revelation that her daughter has to become a killer; my father's crutches knocked from under his arms, falling to the ground only to be picked back up and dragged along. And then… No, I can't think that. Head spinning. Heart pounding.

The door opens, and I jump, looking for my parents' faces, only to see Otho. I can't muster up the animosity to hate him so instead I run to him, gripping onto his shirt. "Where are my parents?" I demand. "Otho, where are they, what has Estha done to them, what—"

"Clove," Otho says. I stop and look up at him. "Clove, they're gone." I collapse, hot tears staining my cheeks. Otho grabs me before I hit the ground and holds me close. "Clove, you're in trouble."

"I don't care," I mutter, then scream, "I don't care! They were the only reason I wanted this, the only reason—"

"I know Clove!" Otho shakes me, his brows furrowing. "You think I don't know that?" He looks me in the eyes, and my lip trembles as more tears come. He pulls me close, a very uncharacteristic show of affection between a trainer and a trainee. I allow myself to breathe out a struggling, sputtered breath and release as the remainder of my hatred flows out of me, completely overwhelmed by my grief. Otho places a fatherly hand on my head and says, "I should've told you. Maybe this wouldn't have happened. But I was sworn to secrecy, Clove. I still am." He leans back to look me in the face again. "Clove, there's a lot more going on than you know. There's a reason they pick the way they do. There's a reason One and Two don't win every year. There's a reason Tens and Twelves win every so often. There's a very fragile system, and you've set it off-kilter."

"Yeah, I heard that from Estha," I say. "If it's a system that dictates my parents' deaths, I'm glad it's ruined."

"You shouldn't be. The Districts and the Capitol all know we have our volunteer system is in place, it's no big secret. We may be able to fool the audience into thinking you were our plan, that you were the one who always intended to go. But the Capitol government knows."

My stomach sinks. "They know?"

"Yeah. They know. Which means the Gamemakers know. And the Capitol doesn't like rebellion, especially when it interferes with their plan." There's that word again. I knew my actions were a show of contempt for Two's rules, but I didn't think I'd gone so far as to insult the Capitol.

"So I've effectively signed my death warrant, is what you're saying." My resolve cracks with my voice, and more tears begin to spill as I let my arms drop from around Otho. I go back to the couch and sit slowly, resting my head on my hands

"Not necessarily," Otho says. "There's only so much the Gamemakers can do before the audience begin to notice how much their controlling, and then they'll get criticized for authenticity." I stare at him in confusion, and he moves forward and grabs my hands. "You can still _win_, Clove. You just have to outsmart the Gamemakers." He puts a finger under my chin and lifts my head. "If anybody can do it, it's going to be you."

I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand and muster the tiniest of smiles. "I've got nothing to lose now anyway."

"I assume by now you know about the council vote," Otho says, dropping to his knees in front of me. He nods at my silence. "We'll you should know I'm voting for you now. I've always been on your side." He gives me a smile, and with a quick squeeze of my hands, he's out of the room.

I'm alone again, but only for a moment. A Peacekeeper steps in and waves me toward the door, and marshals me out of the Justice Building. I'm numb to the cheers as I walk down the steps to convene with Cato and head for train. I smile and wave blankly for the cameras as I step onto the platform and board the District 2 car. I prepare myself for the onslaught of questions and reprimands I'm bound to receive.

What I'm not prepared for is Enobaria slamming me into the wall of the train car with her hand around my throat.


End file.
